


An Unfair Wager

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, vulcan hand porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt:</p>
<p>"1. Vulcans' hands are erogenous zones<br/>2. Data PADDs are not ergonomic even a little bit<br/>3. Spock is a workaholic<br/>Conclusion: carpal tunnel. Achey, cracking joints, swollen wrists, general misery! Someone massages his hands to make him feel better! He's turned on because they're really good at it! Kinky hand-obsessive sex ensues."</p>
<p>Ummm. I wrote hand porn. Again. I have no shame. Also I totally BSed the bits about Vulcan bone structure, so if it goes against canon Vulcan anatomy, I apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unfair Wager

Spock is slowly growing to hate both his console and the data PADDs being brought to him on a constant basis. He loves his job - maybe loves it a little too much considering the hours he logs - but the equipment is slowly starting to take its toll.

Starfleet, despite all its bluster about equality among races and acceptance of interspecies differences, designs their ships for humans. It's only logical; humans may make up only a small percentage of sentient creatures in the galaxy or, for that matter, in the universe as they know it, but they are a huge majority of the sentient creatures enlisted in Starfleet. As a result, normal operations objects such as chairs, consoles, data PADDs, and so on are designed to best accommodate human physiology. And no matter how closely other humanoid species outwardly resemble humans, they do not necessarily share that same physiology.

Such is the case with Spock. Having a human mother has slightly altered his genetic makeup from most Vulcans - it takes longer for him to fully focus on his meditation, takes more energy to keep his emotions under control, makes his face softer and less severe than his father's - but he is otherwise overwhelmingly Vulcan in his construction. As such, he has decided he detests his console.

Along with the pointed ears and green blood, he has inherited Vulcan bone structure. He has all the same bones humans do, even has them in the same numbers, but they're all at angles that are just slightly off. It's enough that the small knot on the edge of his wrist grates against the panels in a highly irritating fashion. It's enough that the alignment of his hands feels jarred and awkward whenever he signs off on a yeoman's PADD. It's enough that when he works another twelve hour shift, all the pain receptors below his elbows are screaming at him in agony, and it's all he can do to walk calmly to the turbolift when he relinquishes his place to his Gamma shift replacement.

He considers, briefly, seeing Doctor McCoy about the problem. But there are several issues to consider there, not the least of which is the sudden plague of Coronis Eggflower pollen brought aboard by the landing party (and by "landing party," what everyone really means is, "Lieutenant Sulu," because the man can't leave native plant life alone without wanting to bring a sprout or a cutting to his room, rather like a child trying to acquire new pets wherever he goes). It's caused a significant percentage of the crew to come down with an illness closely mimicking normal Terran influenza, with the addition of lovely purple boils that McCoy has unfortunately had to spend the last three days lancing and draining. Spock does not particularly care to bother the doctor when he has more important patients to deal with.

And he just doesn't have the patience to withstand a barrage of "pointy eared bastard" and "green-blooded hobgoblin" without seriously considering the urge to throttle the man. He's just too achy and exhausted for it.

He makes his way instead to the quarters he's been sharing with Kirk for the past two years. Their relationship isn't anything they go out of their way to broadcast, but neither is it something they make extensive efforts to hide. The raised eyebrows and whispers have mostly stopped by now, and it's a relief when he can key into the security panel outside their quarters without passing crewmen staring at him.

Kirk, despite being let off shift several hours before him, is still working. He's clad only in his worn sweat pants and looks as though he's fresh out of the shower, but his attention is devoted solely to another of those infernal data PADDs, shooting Spock a cursory welcoming smile before focusing on his reports again.

Spock says nothing, making a beeline for the bathroom and sparing a moment to wish he was back on Vulcan (or rather, he corrects himself with a pang, New Vulcan), where every family dwelling was equipped with a large stone bath. He longs for a soak in steaming hot water, the kind that would result in first or second degree burns for Kirk and nothing but bliss for himself. He tries to replicate the experience by soaking his forearms in the sink for a bit, but the water isn't anywhere near hot enough, and the awkward angle he has to achieve in order to keep his wrists submerged isn't doing anything for the pain throbbing in his hands. Finally he gives up, leaving his clothes in an uncharacteristically messy pile on the floor and stepping into a pair of pajama pants before making his way to their bed.

He's rubbing at his wrists in a futile attempt to ease the ache when he settles next to Kirk, curious what he's working on even if he'd like to toss the gadget across the room. "Research on that stupid weed Sulu decided he had to bring back," Kirk explains, shifting not at all subtly closer to him. "Bones said if he has to spend one more day draining purple pus out of the crew, he's going to make me wash out the biohazard pans."

Normally he would make some sort of quip regarding who exactly commands this ship, or maybe even agree with the doctor's method of punishment. But he's tired and he hurts, so he simply remains silent, still rubbing his wrists absently while he looks over the information plastered all over the tiny screen.

Kirk keeps working for a few more minutes before the silence gets to him, looking over at him questioningly. "Something wrong?"

"I am ... fine, Jim," he mutters, trotting out one of the quaint human phrases he's picked up to avoid discussing his emotions at length.

Kirk looks at his hands and then back up at his face pointedly, raising an eyebrow in a poor imitation of Spock. He feels irrationally proud of himself for having passed that on to Kirk in some way, even if he isn't very good at it; it's like he's rubbing off on him. "You need to see Bones?"

He shakes his head. "I have no desire to interrupt his current lineup of patients with a trivial matter."

A grin. "You just don't want to deal with the purple ooze everywhere."

"I would prefer to avoid it, yes."

Usually this is where Kirk calls him a chicken, and Spock argues about how irrational it is to compare himself in any way to poultry, and then there's some bantering about expressions and their meanings that inevitably ends in grumbling about too-literal Vulcans and illogical humans. But Kirk seems to get that he's too tired for it, setting his PADD aside and smoothing calloused fingers over the backs of his hands. "What'd you do?"

He shrugs inarticulately at first, a small part of his brain enjoying the attention to his hands and the rest of it devoted to attempts to ignore the ache. "The console and the data PADDs are not designed to be ergonomically comfortable for any species but humans."

"And you've been spending too damn many hours up on the bridge," Kirk adds, hands circling around his wrists and squeezing gently, raising an eyebrow at the slight furrow that appears between Spock's eyebrows. "That bad?"

"It rarely progresses to this point," Spock hastily explains before Kirk can start ordering the entire maintenance team to wreck his console and rebuild it so it better suits his physiology. There's no need for it, not when the majority of his replacements on other shifts are human.

Kirk says nothing to that, but he starts shifting around on the bed, his back pressed against the headboard and his legs spread wide. "Come here," he murmurs.

Unsure of how a change in position could possibly ease the ache, Spock obeys anyhow. They shift and wriggle until Spock is sprawled comfortably against Kirk, his back to Kirk's front, his head resting against his shoulder. He's about to ask how the new position will affect the pain when Kirk circles his wrist again with gentle, easy pressure. His mouth opens and then stutters shut at the feeling; it's neither pleasurable nor painful, a simple shifting of muscles and ligaments under rough fingers.

"Damn," Kirk mutters, fingers rubbing circles along the underside of his wrist, causing the bones to shift against each other unpleasantly before easing back into place. Spock lets out a sigh as some of the pain starts to ebb, relaxing against the cool skin behind him. "How long were you at the console, anyway?"

"Ensign Chekov is still confined to Sick Bay," Spock reminds him, eyes fluttering closed as Kirk starts working on the other wrist. "As a result, many of his navigational calculations have been assigned to me." And while Spock is brilliant in his own right, Chekov's an absolute genius when it comes to doing complicated number-crunching, and it takes Spock at least twice as much time to finish his workload as it would have taken Chekov.

Kirk switches to the first hand again, thumbs massaging along the top while fingers rub into the pads and creases of his palm, trying to soothe away the rest of the muscle ache. "I wish you'd let Engineering take it apart and rebuild it so this doesn't happen anymore. With Scotty leading that team it wouldn't take more than a day or two, I bet."

"It is a day or two we cannot afford to lose at present," Spock returns, his arms starting to tingle with sensation. With the aches dissipating, the nerve centers there are starting to fire an entirely different kind of signal to his brain, and he resists the urge to squirm.

"So we wait until Sulu Disease dissipates-"

"Coronian Eggflower Influenza," Spock can't help correcting him.

"Which is entirely Sulu's fault and therefore I'm renaming it Sulu Disease," Kirk returns easily, starting the same soothing motions along his other hand. "Anyway, once everyone stops throwing up and developing boils, we'll have the full bridge crew back in commission. We could restructure your console then."

He leashes the purr gathering in the back of his throat to a quiet vibration instead, trying to disguise the half-interested shifting of his hips as an attempt to settle in a more comfortable position. "It would result in discomfort for any human replacements on other shifts," he points out, the same way he always does when they have this discussion.

"It's not that much of a difference between what's comfortable for you and what's comfortable for us," Kirk returns. He's got one hand wrapped around each of Spock's now, thumbs rubbing slow circles around each knuckle. A sudden thought occurs to him and he grins into Spock's hair. "I wanna try something. You trust me?"

Part of Spock wants to continue the previous conversation long enough to talk Kirk out of it, but it's overruled by the pleasure centers in his brain that are totally focused on the tingling sensations traveling through his hands and up along his forearms. "Yes," he says simply.

Kirk drops Spock's left hand in favor of wrapping his fingers around the right, rubbing and massaging for a few minutes before one hand wraps entirely around his thumb. "Relax," he mutters into Spock's ear, and it's a pointless order since he already feels boneless.

That is, until Kirk gives a sharp tug. There's a surprisingly loud pop that seems to echo through the room as he cracks the joint back into place. There's an equally shocking sensation emanating from the bones there, and while Spock isn't sure whether it's pleasant or not, his cock has cast its vote for the former, twitching to attention. "Okay?"

He feels himself twitching a bit against the sensations, trying to puzzle out an answer. "I am unsure," he admits, unconsciously pressing closer to Kirk's chest.

"Looks like other parts of you are pretty sure," he returns, and Spock knows it isn't logical to hear a smirk in someone's voice, but some days there's nothing logical about Kirk whatsoever.

Spock decides it's better not to answer at all, and Kirk apparently chooses to take this as permission to continue. He works his way over to the knuckle at the root of his index finger. "Relax," he murmurs again, and Spock realizes he's tensed up and waiting for that same strange sensation of pain and release all at once. He focuses on keeping the muscles in his hands lax and easy while Kirk wraps a hand around his finger, moving it in slow, easy circles before pulling it back sharply.

There's another ridiculously loud popping sound, and this time his brain has decided that yes, it will have more of that, please. Spock lets out a soft exhalation, shifting restlessly again, this time to hide the rather obvious tent in his pajama pants. He can feel that arrogant grin pressing into his shoulder, and for a brief moment he's irritated at the cocky attitude Kirk develops every time he uncovers something new he can do to drive Spock crazy.

The irritation is gone with another loud crack emanating from his middle finger, and the sudden shock of it keeps him from repressing the moan. The grin pressed against his shoulder spreads impossibly wider; he can almost feel Kirk's teeth there. Before he can even attempt to fire some weak retort at the display of pride, his ring finger cracks, and where he wants to say, "You are perhaps overly confident in your new discovery," he instead whispers, "Yes..." and reaches his free hand into his pajamas.

Kirk drags his wrist away with one hand and cracks his pinkie finger with the other. The resulting sound is not so much a pop as it is a small snap, but it makes Spock shudder and moan all the same. "Here's how this is going to work," he hears Kirk whisper in his ear, pausing for a moment to trace his tongue over the point. "I'm done with this hand." And he demonstrates it by letting it go. "You can touch yourself all you want with that hand. But you can't come until I've cracked all the fingers on the other hand."

His fingers are twitching to wrap around his cock, needing some form of release after being worked up like that. He cracks his eyes open and raises an eyebrow, tilting his head a bit so he can see Kirk's face. "Is that an order?" he murmurs, proud of himself for keeping his voice so steady.

Kirk considers that, fingers tracing along Spock's forearm in a highly distracting pattern. "Not an order," he muses. "A deal. If you can manage it, I'll refrain from ordering Engineering to rebuild your console."

"And if I am unable?"

"Then the reconstruction will begin next Alpha shift."

The corners of Spock's mouth twitch and he's tempted to give in to the smirk forming there. But he refrains, moving in for a kiss instead. "I accept," he murmurs against his lips. This will be easy, he thinks. He has years of Vulcan control and mastery over his emotions. If Kirk thinks he can beat him just because-

His thumb pops unexpectedly and he moans through the tide of pleasure washing over him. He's slid a hand into his waistband without consciously deciding to, fingers wrapped around his cock and pumping slowly. His index finger makes a sound even louder than the thumb, and the more intense sensation of pleasure/release makes him twist his fingers sharply, gasping and thrusting into his hand. He had not realized just how undone he was before Kirk made the deal, and it will be more difficult to come out of this the victor when-

He groans when Kirk jerks his middle finger back sharply, the slight edge of pain nearly undoing him entirely. He doesn't whimper - Vulcans do not whimper - but he makes a distressing keening sound and forces himself to remove his hand from his pants, reaching back to grab Kirk's thigh instead, bruising him through the fabric of his old sweats. He's so close, so close to winning this, equally close to losing it and giving in to the throb between his legs.

Kirk traces his fingers teasingly over the back of his hand, keeping him coiled and tensed and right on the edge before tugging on his ring finger, and with another loud crack reverberating through the room, Spock is gone, head tossed back against Kirk's shoulder, moaning without reservation as he comes in his pants, hips jerking one last time when he hears the small snap of his littlest finger being cracked.

He shudders when he's finished, the arch of his back relaxing slowly against Kirk's chest, feeling that insufferable grin against his shoulder again. He keeps his eyes closed; he wants to scowl but he simply can't when he's feeling this boneless. "That was an unfair wager," he murmurs, and he can't even get the inflection of irritation in his voice.

"You bet your ass it was. S'the only way I ever win with you." There's something hard and insistent pressing up against his back, and he barely resists the urge to roll his eyes when Kirk continues, "Speaking of your ass..."

"Subtlety is not your strong suit," he mutters, but he's already moving to shimmy out of his thoroughly messy pants.

*******

When they report to the bridge for Alpha shift some hours later, Scotty is already on the floor with his console in shambles around him and Kirk is sitting in the Captain's chair looking even more smug than usual.

Spock decides his time is better spent in the science lab that day.


End file.
